Yondu's in the games car surrounded with various segments of a larger assembly, trying to put large heavy sections of it together. Some sheets of instructions he's printed out lay beside him, a ton of things as he's putting together the structure that's sooner or later meant to be a flight simulator. Hopefully with enough information for people to enhance as necessary. The sleeves on his button-up shirt are rolled up and instead of his leather Ravager gear he has on his khaki pants and hiking boots. Looking far less "space biker" and more "shop teacher whose mug of coffee smells a little boozey". But it's the more comfortable thing to do this in.
He's barely just saved up enough to do it, but now he can invest. He'd been promising for a while, been talking about it for a while, and while he clings to that one dim hope that there's something that might come after the train (it's a very dim one, though), this is mostly his attempt to either give people the means to help themselves if the situation were to arise.
When someone comes along that looks like they might be able to help, he gestures them over. "I need somebody to hold this while I attach."
Venting in the gymnasium
It took him days to recover from the events of that city, not so much because of the illusion but because he'd run himself clean out of energy. He'd just thrown everything into dragging people out, especially the ones that were committed to staying, that liked their new worlds. He did it because he knew he had some unique bastardly qualifications to do so.
But now that it's settled, now that it's not a mission or a job in his mind, he's angry. His family had been great. His life had been pleasant. He'd had any number of nice feelings, even if he didn't have the memories of loving parents or some non-descript lost love to go with them. All of that almost made him want to keep it at the time. But a harsh moment of clarity hit him later.
He'd forgotten his boy.
He'd somehow forgotten Peter damn Quill in all of the young man's perpetual childlike wonder and eccentricities and general ability to be a pain in the ass. He'd forgotten his boy, and that's got him in the gym angrily wailing on one of the test dummies with kicks and punches rather than practicing with his arrow.
Remembering in the greenhouse
Later Yondu's exhausted again, goes up to the greenhouse to just sit and take in the relaxing greens. He sits by one of the rose covered beams, just planting himself on the ground and leaning back against it. He'll just relax here for a while.
He looks off to the right at one of the red roses and an urge overtakes him, almost an instinct. When he touches it the rose turns from deep red to striking blue, the color spreading through the petals.
He spends the next ten minutes picking out flowers and shifting their colors. It's just the slightest bit of what he could do before, but it's the best damn thing that's come out of it. Though, for anyone who cares, he has no sense of symmetry for where he's left these odd-colored blooms. He's just trying it wherever is easy to reach.
Wildcard
[Open to Prose or Brackets, just hit me with whatever.]
no subject
He's barely just saved up enough to do it, but now he can invest. He'd been promising for a while, been talking about it for a while, and while he clings to that one dim hope that there's something that might come after the train (it's a very dim one, though), this is mostly his attempt to either give people the means to help themselves if the situation were to arise.
When someone comes along that looks like they might be able to help, he gestures them over. "I need somebody to hold this while I attach."
But now that it's settled, now that it's not a mission or a job in his mind, he's angry. His family had been great. His life had been pleasant. He'd had any number of nice feelings, even if he didn't have the memories of loving parents or some non-descript lost love to go with them. All of that almost made him want to keep it at the time. But a harsh moment of clarity hit him later.
He'd forgotten his boy.
He'd somehow forgotten Peter damn Quill in all of the young man's perpetual childlike wonder and eccentricities and general ability to be a pain in the ass. He'd forgotten his boy, and that's got him in the gym angrily wailing on one of the test dummies with kicks and punches rather than practicing with his arrow.
He looks off to the right at one of the red roses and an urge overtakes him, almost an instinct. When he touches it the rose turns from deep red to striking blue, the color spreading through the petals.
He spends the next ten minutes picking out flowers and shifting their colors. It's just the slightest bit of what he could do before, but it's the best damn thing that's come out of it. Though, for anyone who cares, he has no sense of symmetry for where he's left these odd-colored blooms. He's just trying it wherever is easy to reach.